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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26033479">Christmas in July</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi'>okapi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Holiday Tentacle!lock [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Consent Issues, Drunkenness, Exhibitionism, Greg Lestrade-centric, M/M, Masturbation, POV Greg Lestrade, Plot Bunny, Sherlock Holmes Has Tentacles, Tentacle Sex, Voyeurism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:49:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,562</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26033479</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After a drunken celebration, Lestrade crashes on the sofa at 221b and has the most erotic dream of his life. </p><p>Lestrade-centric. Voyeur Lestrade. Tentacle!lock/John. Warning for serious consent issues &amp; drunkenness.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Holiday Tentacle!lock [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/847866</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Season of Kink</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Christmas in July</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Warnings:</b> Lestrade and John are drunk. Lestrade crashes on the sofa of 221b and sees Sherlock &amp; John having sex and thinks it's a dream. There is also a bit of self-kink-shaming at the end. If you think any of that will disturb you, then this isn't the fic for you.</p><p>This is a plot bunny I am recording for posterity. It's at the crossroads of two fics that I might write: one, a prequel, the treasure hunt with Sherlock, John, and Lestrade and two, a sequel, a get-together, hurt/comfort Mystrade with Tentacle!croft.</p><p>For my DW 2020 Season of Kink bingo prompt I-2: tentacles.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“ARGH!”</p><p>Lestrade’s hand slapped the wet tile, bracing himself, holding himself up, most improbably, by a few hard-pressed fingertips. His chest heaved. His ragged breaths were drowned in the noisy spray of the shower. He watched the cloudy swirl mix with the water at his feet, then disappear down the drain.</p><p>He realised, with some humility, that he was a bit winded and also a bit dizzy. He’d come harder than he had in a long time.</p><p>It wasn’t the hangover, though, admittedly, those were getting more difficult to shake off as the years passed by. Out of modicum of self-preservation, Lestrade didn’t indulge as often as he used to.</p><p>No, he’d come hard because he’d been remembering the dream he’d had at Sherlock and John’s flat the previous night. He shouldn’t be wanking to a dream of his friends having sex, but the dream, Jesus wept, the dream.</p><p>Lestrade rinsed himself off and shut off the water and leaned back against the tile.</p><p>He couldn’t help smiling. He’d smiled the night before, too.</p><p>In fact, Lestrade had been smiling for weeks.</p><p>He was smiling because whatever else happened to him, however long his miserable existence was, he had a new epitaph.</p><p>Not Lestrade, DI. No, sir! </p><p>Greg Lestrade, treasure hunter!</p><p>And not just treasure hunter, any fool could hunt for treasure, but he and John and Sherlock had actually found it!</p><p>It begged belief, but truth it was.</p><p>Lestrade had been seized by treasure-hunting fever when Sherlock and John had shown up in his office in December with a treasure map, an antique medallion, and a hare-brained scheme.  After that first wild goose chase, in a bloody cold winter, by the by, ended with Sherlock saying, ‘Oops, wrong solstice!’ Lestrade thought himself mad to return with those two fools in June to try their luck again.</p><p>But, God Almighty, this time, they’d done it!   </p><p>And now, the paperwork was in, and the valuation made, and the reward split, three ways.</p><p>It was amazing. It was storybook. It was legendary.</p><p>Lestrade wanted to pinch himself every waking moment.</p><p>He had gone to Baker Street the previous evening to celebrate the last chapter of the affair. He had been slightly disappointed that the elder Holmes, who had come to their rescue at the very end of the adventure and had also facilitated the official side of things once the treasure had been recovered, had not been in attendance, but he had sent the next-best thing, which was a bottle of the finest single malt scotch to be had.</p><p>To say John and Lestrade had made serious in-roads into the whiskey was an understatement. They’d gotten so blotto that Lestrade took John up on the offer of a kip on the sofa. John had passed out in an armchair.</p><p>Lestrade remembered toddling back to the sofa from the bathroom, a silly grin still plastered on his face. John was sprawled in the chair, snoring to raise the dead. Lestrade had crumpled onto the sofa, removing his shoes and grabbing the pillow and blanket provided and making himself comfortable.</p><p>The room had spun.</p><p>Of course, like all dreams, Lestrade didn’t remember the beginning. In fact, in the beginning, he didn’t think it was a dream at all, but just an awkward situation.</p><p>The voices were soft.</p><p>
  <em>Come to bed, John.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hmpfgh.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Come on. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Let me suck you off, gorgeous. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shh. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shut my mouth, gorgeous, shut it for me with your handsome co—</em>
</p><p>Sherlock had stood in front of John, blocking Lestrade’s view of John and the armchair entirely. He wore his blue silk dressing gown.</p><p>Lestrade had thought about tossing the pillow at them, but he'd worried about startling John and possibly inflicting some very intimate damage to Sherlock’s anatomy. Then, given that the room was still spinning, Lestrade had doubted he would be able to hit his target at all. He might hit a lamp or something else breakable.</p><p>He'd decided to ignore them. Send his mind off into outer space, to a galaxy far, far away...</p><p>
  <em>John!</em>
</p><p>It was soft but strained, so strained that Lestrade thought he might not have much longer to wait. Having come, Sherlock would naturally drag his drunk lover to bed, and Lestrade would be at peace.   </p><p>Suddenly, John had tugged at Sherlock’s dressing gown and it had slid off of Sherlock’s shoulders.</p><p>Oh, Lord, groaned Lestrade silently, I don’t want to look at that bugger’s arse!</p><p>But that’s when Lestrade had realised it was a just dream. It often happened that way in his dreams, so he wasn’t surprised.</p><p>Sherlock was almost naked, his pyjama bottoms pushed down to his knees, and from his back there issued eight long tentacles.</p><p>They were grey, or maybe they’d just appeared so in the dim light. Four pairs, moving from long, thin, ribbon like ones at the top, near Sherlock’s shoulder blades to the largest and shortest ones, which emerged just above his waist.</p><p>Lestrade had first thought of a peacock with its feathers fanned out on display; the arms were extended and writhing around Sherlock’s torso in a similar fashion. Then Lestrade’s mind had wandered to cephalopods of the deep sea; the limbs were, he considered, not arms but tentacles, very flexible, able to furl and unfurl, coil and uncoil. Finally, Lestrade had considered mythology and Gorgon’s heads of snakes. Sherlock, evidently trying to stifle his vocal reactions to John’s ministration, had made a few tiny noises which might have been hisses.</p><p>Lestrade couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t fascinated by monsters. Aliens from outer space, many-armed creatures of the deep sea, cryptids which hid in remote corners of forgotten forests, he loved them all, and he devoured stories about them in any form, comic books, novels, graphic, bad films, good films.</p><p>To him, Sherlock had looked like a god.</p><p>As they will in dreams, things had got muddled. The next clear image Lestrade had was of the Sherlock and John together in the armchair. Sherlock’s blue dressing gown was like a blanket over them.</p><p>John’s head had lolled to one side. His eyes were closed. His face was contorted in pure ecstasy.</p><p>From where he was, Lestrade could not see Sherlock’s face, only tufts of dark curls peeking out behind John and the sliver of a pale neck.</p><p>There was obviously a tremendous amount of activity occurring beneath the dressing gown. It had rippled and tented and shifted and looked very much alive, like the surface of the ocean in a storm.</p><p>Suddenly, the bodies had jerked violently, and the blue silk had slid to the floor.</p><p>Lestrade had stared, the image imprinting on his brain.</p><p>It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.</p><p>John laid naked in a bed of tentacles, tentacles that were fucking him.</p><p>Two thin ones were curling and uncurling round his nipples, pinching and teasing. A third was twisted round his erect cock. One was creeping up the middle of his chest, slithering up his neck and over his chin and inserting its tip between his lips. At first tickle, John parted his lips and began to suck. He made little grunts of closed-mouth pleasure around it.</p><p>John’s legs were spread wide. One of the tentacles was draped across his balls, fondling them; its twin was moving further back, perhaps snaking along his perineum, caressing him.</p><p>Lestrade had been certain by the way John’s lower body heaved and fell that at least one of the tentacles was sodding him something glorious. Lestrade had wondered how large it was. Big, probably. Slick with something not-of-this-world and thrusting. Stretching. Milking. Lestrade’s own arsehole had clenched sympathetically. Indeed, his whole body had been ablaze at the sight of John. Even his poor toes had clenched to cramping.</p><p>He couldn’t look away. He just couldn’t.</p><p>John was being fucked, supernaturally, super-wonderfully, super-marvelously fucked, and the expression on John’s face mirrored Lestrade’s own lust.</p><p>Lestrade had barely registered Sherlock’s presence. There had been another pair of legs, pyjama-clad legs, underneath John, but other than that, nothing.</p><p>But then, looking closer, Lestrade had noted Sherlock’s arms, the blue silk sleeves of the gown. They’d been twined round John’s arms, keeping them by his side.</p><p>Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck, Lestrade had thought as realisation dawned. He’s holding John down so the, the <em>things</em>, can have their way with him.</p><p>“Fuck!”</p><p>Later Lestrade wouldn’t be able to say if it had been he himself or John who had cried out.</p><p>What was certain was the dream was over. He sunk back into dark nothingness.</p>
<hr/><p>Drunk or not, Lestrade was an early riser. He had opened his eyes and sat up and sensed the perfect stillness of the Baker Street flat.</p><p>He’d folded the blanket and set the pillow neatly on top of it. He’d put on his shoes, grabbed his jacket, and left, waiting until he’d reached the pavement to text John a perfunctory thanks for the hospitality.</p><p>As soon as he’d arrived home, Lestrade had drunk a small sea of cold water and taken the hottest shower his skin could stand.</p><p>And he’d relived the dream.</p><p>It didn’t even matter that it was John and Sherlock. It was so bloody hot. Lestrade could almost feel the smooth, strange cords moving along his body…</p><p>Christ, there was a reason he was single. He was such a perv!  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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